Within the obsidian glass, an echo of oneself, twisted and muted, croons softly from a distance. Each whisper a memory: tinged with decay, rusted at the edges, decimated by time's relentless ebb. Here, in the mirror's shadow, lies the faceless congregation of what once thrived. Shadows stretch their skeletal fingers, caressing visages long forgotten, evanescent.
Beneath the tides of reflection, a figure stares back, eyes obscured behind veils of mist. "What do you see?" the voice queries, rasping between the stones of an ancient sepulcher. So many have gazed and found in these depths, not solace, but the resounding chime of what must never be spoken aloud.
Silhouette